Friday, 12 October 2012

Parenting

I'm talking about this word parenting, of which
I know nothing. Even though my lower
half has been used as a channel tunnel for 3 new arrivels...I still know
nothing. Yes, I've had three, count those stretch marks. Even the word Parent
fills me with fear and loathing...I remember when I'd hear, "Wait until
your parents find out, boy is your bottom going to be whipped…" No, not my
parents. Please here take my fingernails, I'll tweek them out myself, just don't
tell my parents.

Parents, executioner, executioner parents...it's
all means the same to me. I still can't
think of myself as a parent.I sat with
my kids having shoved play dough up our noses, gluing hula hoops to the cat
waiting for our mother to come home and make dinner and then it occurs to me
and I convulse with fear...I am the mother. I'm sorry I don't know how to do
it. I got all those manuals you buy that Miriam Stoppard churns out. You know,
'how to maintain baby…when to have it serviced and when to change the oil'. We
wonder how well adjusted her children are.She gives you scoops; at 5 weeks the baby should be able to distinguish
you from a sofa.Yeah, thanks for the
Miriam, what if he's already 5 and decides he likes the sofa better.Forget those books, you could shove a kid
in a box for 10 years and it could come out a well-adjusted, loving genius and
another kid comes from one of those perfect families where the mommy makes
dollies that match the biscuits that match the curtains, dries her own flowers and
can stuff a turkey with her tongue and the kid's becomes a Jehovah's
Witness....who knows anything. These days you see parents hysterical to do the
right thing cause really nobody knows anything. These days as soon as baby is out
of that womb they have to go to gymnastics; ballet; tennis lessons. Come on
Joey point those toes. I know you don't know where they are but point them. I'm
paying for this... Look his fingers are moving, get in a piano coach it's going
to be a maestro or a computer genius. I say just show the kid how to cross a
road without getting squished that's all you can get right with parenting.

I have only unhappy memories of being a
teenager. Everything before those teens was bliss, the tooth fairy, Santa, the Easter
bunny…and then wham, those hormones hit and life turns ugly...One minute you're
the most popular thing on a swing then next minute if you haven't got boobs you
have no meaning on planet earth. It didn't matter anymore that I held the
school record for loudest burp...bra size suddenly became the only show in
town. You were nothing if you didn't have a bra. And it had better be a big,
big pointed, giant size bra. And of course my mother wouldn't buy me
one...don't tell me about a cruel childhood, this was the Cruella Daville of
motherhood. Anyway, I ended up stealing one of hers and stuffing it with
newspaper in my desperation for popularity.
It didn't matter my breasts had 15 points...they were breasts. I made
this crunching sound when I walked and you could spot a few letters through my
shirt. People used to ask me, "Why
does it say something about President Kennedy on your left mammary?” I was
terrified my mother would find out so every day when I got home from school I'd
bury it in the garden and every morning I'd have to dig it up again. I'm the
only woman who can claim earth worms lodged in my cups. And then you had to suddenly be interested in
boys. Spending hours in the back of cars
as they fondled my Chicago Daily News.
And just as all these hormones are driving you to conform, another juice
kicks in that makes you want to be a rebel; became the school anarchist. In this area no one could touch me. I became head of a school gang called the
Vandelous Virgins. You got in our way, we spray painted you. A big V.V. for Vandelous
Virgins on your face. As a member of the VV's I did anarchist things like stick
sardines in the lighting fixtures at high school so it had to be evacuated for
2 weeks. And with that little triumph
behind me I pulled the most popular boy in school, the golden boy....the one
every girl dreamt of and I became Queen of my high school. For one whole year I was queen...I reigned in
the girls’ toilet. I held court in
there, sitting in my cubicle, demonstrating new techniques in pimple popping
and blowing smoke rings. A year later my
boyfriend went gay on me. So I'd rather
not discuss my teens. Good luck to the
next generation...I hope they figure it all out.